The Prophet (The Cloister Trilogy 2)

She leans even closer. “What is the Father of Fire? Does he mean the devil? Did he send Sarah to hell?” Her urgent whispers cut me.

I glance up to make sure the Spinners aren’t watching before responding. “I think he believes he speaks to the devil, yeah. But that’s just crazy talk, like everything else here.”

“The fire. Did you see it?”

“Fire does stuff like that.” I’ve been telling myself the same thing ever since I witnessed the vortex of flames behind the Prophet. It was nothing. “Doesn’t mean anything. Sarah’s not in hell.” I don’t even believe in hell, but that’s beside the point.

“I can’t stay here.” She forks a limp piece of broccoli, but doesn’t eat it.

“Don’t do anything that could—” I halt my words as a Spinner turns toward us. Taking a big bite of my greens, I chew the unseasoned mush until the Spinner looks away again. I swallow the lump and continue, “Don’t try anything.”

“Why not?” Her grip hardens on my hand. “They’ll kill me or make me a whore or send me to hell with Sarah. I’d rather try to get away than—” She yelps.

“Separate!” Grace grabs Eve by the collar and drags her to another, empty table. “There is no talking, and no one is above the rules.” She hits Eve on the upper arm. “Understood?”

“Yes.” Eve cowers as Grace storms back over to me. “From now on, you eat alone. You speak to no one. I will not allow you to poison these Maidens against me!” Her mouth twists in fury as she raises her baton.

I cover my head and wait for the blow.

“No marks.” Abigail calls from the kitchen window. “Not on that one. You going to disobey the Prophet?”

Everyone in the room stills, even Grace. She glares at the old Spinner, but lowers her baton, then sheaths it in her belt. “Eat! And you—” She points at Abigail. “See me in my office once your lunch duty is done.”

“Of course, Grace.” Abigail returns to scrubbing the pass-through window, ignoring whatever daggers Grace still throws at her as she storms from the dining room.

I sit up, shame coloring my cheeks at the way I cowered.

Once Grace is gone, Susannah reaches toward me, grasping for Eve’s tray. I push it toward her, and she snags it and transfers it to Eve’s table. Eve clutches her arm, silent tears streaming down her face.

Chastity emerges from the kitchen, a tray of rolls in her hands. My mouth waters at the sight. Bread! How long has it been since we’ve had anything even resembling the simple deliciousness of bread? The Prophet wants to keep us lean, which Grace says is the form “most pleasing to the Lord,” so carbs are quite a rebellion.

“I baked them last night, so they’re a bit old.” She hands them out around the room, the Maidens taking greedy bites.

When I get mine, I do the same, and I almost moan at how good it is. Cold, a little stale, and absolutely perfect. I want to scoop more off the tray, to hoard the dwindling supply for myself.

Chastity visits Eve last, surreptitiously sneaking her two rolls instead of one. She leans over and whispers something in her ear, but I can’t hear it, before disappearing back into the kitchen. Abigail hasn’t looked up at all since Grace left, intentionally ignorant of the contraband bread.

Eve takes a roll in her palm, sniffs it, then bites. Her eyes close, and she’s in bread nirvana with the rest of us.

My roll is long gone, and I peer at the kitchen window. I want to warn Chastity that Tuesday night is important, that we have a real chance of escape. But I can’t get to her. And a shadow creeps across my mind—can I trust her? Would she turn us in? I don’t think so, but that doesn’t mean I should take the risk of alerting her something’s coming. She’ll know when it happens. If it happens.

Then again, I know she has more information on Georgia. This may be my last chance to find out what happened to her. I want to leave here, to destroy the Prophet and all he’s working for, but I can’t let go of the thread that brought me here in the first place. So many times, I’ve wanted to ask Adam about her. Even though I feel in my heart that he wasn’t the one who killed her, what if I’m wrong? I don’t know if I could bear it. A flash of him with the knife at Sarah’s—no, Georgia’s—throat bursts through my mind, and the bread threatens to come back up.

If I confess to him, it could just muddy the waters and ruin our escape attempt, which hovers on the edge of disaster already. I have no illusions that Adam’s plan won’t result in bloodshed. There’s no way he can save me or himself from the Prophet without violence.